


Dead Man Hiking

by hes5thlazarus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emerald Graves (Dragon Age), Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentor/Protégé
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, "he wants to give wisdom, not orders," and Dorian loves to learn.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Solas
Kudos: 11





	Dead Man Hiking

They named his reach the Emerald Graves, a poetic name for a dismal end. Solas can taste the ashes of the lost in the air, and fears falling asleep. Where the Orlesians had ripped the forests from their roots and flattened the Exalted Plains, the rage dripped too deep into the soil of the Emerald Graves. A nobleman or two held estates. No one ever lasted long. Ghosts lingered in lichen and stone, canopy and leaf. Solas leans against a boulder and dips his feet in a creek that was once a road, two thousand years ago. He picks up a stone. At least the mica in the rock remembers. Not all of Arlathan is lost.   
  
“Oh, Solas.” Dorian walks over, glittering in the sun. His shadow covers him.   
  
Solas places the smooth riverstone onto the boulder with a satisfying clink and looks up at Dorian. “Yes?” he says testily. It is not that he dislikes Dorian. He is too much a product of his own time and indulgence for Solas to take his swagger personally. But the Tevinter mage tries so hard to dazzle everyone he meets, and Solas is too tired to be amused by a human peacock. He knows he should not be so dismissive; he was young and anxious to impress once. But Dorian is almost likeable, and perhaps that is why he gets under his skin. They can discuss the finer points of mana fissure against Veil warp--and then Dorian will exclaim his surprise that he is following along quite fine, as if he had not written the equation to begin with. He does not see a mage. He sees a pair of pointed ears, and forgets that there is a brain between them.   
  
Dorian tenses. “Am I interrupting?”   
  
“Is there something you would like to ask me, Master Pavus?” He cannot help the ironic edge in his voice. Dorian flinches slightly at the title, but breezes onward.   
  
“Well,  _ Messere _ Solas,” Dorian rolls his eyes, “you mentioned that the Graves have changed since you were last here. I was wondering what it used to be like, before the war. If you have lore to share.”   
  
“Are you appealing to my vanity?” Solas says, amused.   
  
“You do like to talk.” Dorian takes his response as an invitation and sits down next to him. Solas flares his nose. Dorian reeks of the Iron Bull and overpriced cologne. They call him unwashed, but at least he manages to wash away the scent of sex. To avoid the pungent bouquet of Dorian’s day, Solas gets up. Above the creek sits a stone ledge where the People placed one of his markers, the watching wolf. Where the waterfall is now, an eluvian once stood.   
  
Solas says, “Follow me. We won’t go too far from camp.” He grunts as he jumps down from the rocks and splashes across the creek. Dorian hurriedly follows, grimacing as his boots fill with water. Sera broke the waterproofing enchantment on them yesterday; Solas thinks, perhaps he irritates me more than I allow. I should not have let her figure it out; but he and Bull were so obnoxiously loud.   
  
They hike up the cliff in silence. Solas enjoys the feel of the grass under his feet. He loves the woods, and though he mourns what they once were, still he feels himself relaxing into the rhythm of the wind tousling the canopy of leaves, the roar of the waterfall guiding his step.   
  
He wonders aloud, “I wonder if there is a single place in the Dales that does not know a single human step.” He has shepherded the land Mythal granted him as best he could. Still the taint remains: the Blight unlocked, and all this death.   
  
Dorian glances at him curiously. “Not if you’re taking me there. Where are we going, anyway?”   
  
Solas says, “To the Watcher. The Dalish will tell you that he dates to their lost kingdom, a relic of the spirit-wolves the Emerald Knights called their companions.” He smiles ruefully. As fragmented and dissociative he was in the Fade, he tried to guide Ralaferin and the others as best he could. He misses them sharply, and touches his jawbone necklace to ground himself. “However, they are wrong.”   
  
“Oh really,” Dorian drawls. He stops, winded, and Solas waits as he leans against a tree to catch his breath. “And you know--how?”   
  
“Through my journeys in the Fade, Dorian. Where else?” It is not technically a lie. He does not like to tell deliberate untruths casually. He saves them for when they are necessary. Lying was a habit he grew out of as a youth, the hard way, and this body still bears those scars. He points to the wolf over the waterfall. They are nearly there now. Elnora had hid a staff under his paws; perhaps he would collect it later. “This statue dates to before the fall of Arlathan. Just before. I do not know how much you know of my people’s lore, but before Elvhenan fell the people worshipped a god named Fen’Harel, who took the form of a monstrous wolf. At least if you listen to Dalish legend.” He wonders how they thought he could get anything done without opposable thumbs. “They say he seeded his statues with an enchantment that could let him spy on his followers’ loyalties. They are wrong, of course.” Those Dalish fairytales assume he had much more time to cause trouble than he ever did, even as a bored sergeant in Mythal’s army. Though he has always struggled with paranoia, he never crossed that line, not even when Dirthamen ordered him to. “But this statue does have its own tricks.”   
  
“Old magic,” Dorian says. “Pre-Imperium, you say?” He visibly perks up. He staggers a few steps forward and marches up the ragged path. “What are you waiting for, Solas? Lead the way!” Solas smiles and slows his step to give Dorian time to catch his breath. He loves to teach and Dorian loves to learn: that is why it is impossible for him to stay annoyed for long. Dorian peppers him with questions as they hack their way through the undergrowth. He dodges the ones that make him hate himself and answers the ones that make him laugh. Under all that glittering, impractical armor, Dorian flaunts a sharp mind and a quicker tongue. Solas enjoys himself. Tevinter and then Orlesian expansion into the Dales is part of the Blight the Evanuris wrecked upon the world--he would prefer to wander these woods with his companions of old--but they are all dead, and he is a dead man walking with a quickling upstart. But of all afterlives, he knows, this is not the worst, and this can be fixed--and Dorian is not terrible company after all.   
  
They clamber up the last incline and stop at the Watcher’s base. Solas notices an offering of apricots left in a small bronze dish at the wolf’s paws. He helps himself to one. He loves the taste of summer fruit, and though it lacks some of the richness of the orchards of Arlathan, the apricot is delicious.   
  
Dorian looks askance. “Are you sure you should be doing that?”   
  
Solas says, “I would not let  _ you _ do it.”   
  
“Right,” Dorian says, “it’s not sacrilege if you do it. And the Inquisitor doesn’t see.”   
  
Solas laughs. “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it,” he starts, but Dorian interrupts.   
  
“You don’t get a story,” Dorian says, lips twitching into a smile. “Now, speaking of, you promised me a story. So what does this statue do?” He gazes up at the Watcher’s impassive stare.   
  
Solas fords across the creek. The current is strong as it crashes down the cliff, but not enough to push him. He chooses his footing carefully, and then holds an arm out to help Dorian. Dorian, though, ignores him. He sketches a quick diagnostic into the air, blue mana flashing.   
  
“Hmm,” Dorian says. “The Veil is thin here. Who would have thought.”   
  
Then the Watcher’s eyes flash. Solas steps back. A spirit haunts the water, a reflection of himself, dreaming quiescent in the days of Arlathan’s fall. The spirit-wolf steps from the stone, snuffling at him curiously. Solas thinks: surely my fur was never so fluffy. I was decidedly unkempt in those days. One thing ages the spirit: it wears Mythal’s brand on its muzzle. It must have formed just after his apotheosis, but before June’s disastrous trip into the Deep Roads.   
  
The spirit says, in a voice not unlike his own, “Banal’nadas.” The Blight is inevitable. Nothing is inevitable. It cocks its head at Dorian. Dorian starts. He leans over, to peer into the wolf’s eyes. The wolf snorts and walks away into the sun of the woods, its footsteps leaving the river unrippled. It melts into the warm shadows of the forest beyond them. Solas sighs. He is living, or he is dying; he does not know which, but at least that spirit is now free. But the Dales have lost one more piece of its living history. Its purpose has been fulfilled. The Blight is inevitable.   
  
They walk back in silence, tired from the hike up the cliff. As they reach the campsite, though, Dorian turns to him.   
  
“You know, Solas,” he says, “that spirit had eyes like you.”   
  
“Like an elf, you mean,” Solas says dismissively.   
  
Dorian shakes his head. “No. Like you.” But before he can continue his questions, their companions notice them, and they are swept into the fervor of life around the campfire. Solas is glad to let the matter rest.


End file.
